Bittersweet summer

Summertime sadness is real, and at this point, I can no longer pretend it's an illusion. Every year, this bitter feeling crosses my mind. Maybe you feel it as well. Thick and sticky, it is too sweet and settles on the walls of the stomach. It reminds me of the carousel I loved to ride in childhood, but now I am too big to climb onto that white pony. It always comes and leaves; it seems like quite a rule to me. Like Einstein's gravity law or whatever. It's hard to determine precisely when, but the beginning of May is the perfect time. Oh God, how I love lying down in my bed and ruminating about all those things that used to be nice, all those things that used to be great, all those things that I hated, all those things that…

I vividly remember the grapevine that twined around the gazebo, the veranda bench that swayed in the wind or under the gentle weight of my father's hand. And the sun, a sea full of sun. It kissed my face, my cheeks, shoulders, and arms. I loved the sun, and it loved me with the most sincere, kind, and tender love. There was no hidden or filthy motive in it, only warmth. I remember the old Soviet books in faded paper bindings lying in musty cabinets at home. And myself lying on that same swing and reading "Alice in Wonderland." That same day, I went to look for a rabbit burrow in Grandma's garden, and when I didn't find one, I started searching around the neighborhood and accidentally came across a big hole, which I immediately stepped into. Fortunately, it wasn't very deep, and I just fell onto the soft, slightly damp dirt. But my disappointment was far greater than the physical pain. Later, I successfully managed to fall into mole holes as well.

Perhaps summer nostalgia is related to the common illusion that the past is better than the present. As the saying goes, the grass is always greener on the other side. I'm definitely not in the past, but I always want to recollect it. Maybe we cling to memories like climbers to sharp edges, but I would rather have palms with scrapes than a body full of broken hopes. Collecting memories is a highly eco-friendly activity; the only thing it pollutes is your own soul-like system. But I'm one of those people who prefer to keep and store old junk rather than throw it away.

The past feels like home, surrounded by the warm walls of your mind for a while at least. The past is a place where you belong, where everything is discovered; you can control, sense it, and determine it. Everything makes sense and is a sense in some way. This monologue reminds me of a Peter Pan motive, the feeling of lost joy and simplicity, never wanting to grow up. Holding onto memories and cherishing them, we feel safe, stop time, and genuinely feel at home.

With kindness and bittersweer sadness,
Sonya